A Spanner in the Works
The lift made a loud clang, as it reached the bottom of the shaft. The Abbot folded back the concertina door and strode out into the dimly lit passageway. “Tell me brother Thompson, how long have you been a member of the order?” he asked solemnly. Brother Thomson scampered out after the Abbot with trepidation, trying to keep up with the tall man’s brisk pace. “s-s-since I was but a child f-f-f-father. T-t-t-twenty six years.” The Abbot paused his pace, and looked down on the diminutive monk. “And how long since you were told of our Abby’s true purpose?” “five y-y-years, f-f-father. I was in-n-n-nducted by Brother M-m-malcolm,“ Stuttered Brother Thompson. The Abbot smiled and started down the passage again. “Indeed. Brother Malcolm has a great deal of respect for your work. It is not often that a mere initiate is allowed into the catacombs after a paltry five years service. He tells me you have an affinity for devices.” “I t-t-try father,” replied the monk, raising his voice. A clattering, mechanical noise was becoming louder as the two proceeded down the passage. “You do indeed. Your work so far has been most excellent. It is at Brother Malcolm’s request that you are to be transferred to our Engine Analytics order. Your formal ascent to the rank of Journeyman will take place shortly; however I thought it appropriate that you should be shown the Engine hall”. The two came to the end of the passage into a swelteringly hot, gas-lit room, perhaps thirty yards on a side. The majority of the room was taken up with a dozen or so work-benches, cluttered with tools and mechanical components. Six other monks, wearing distinctive grey robes and aprons were working at the benches, or writing on desks that occupied the far wall of the room. The far wall was not hewn rock or masonry, as was the rest of the chamber, but instead appeared as a series of large windows, with wooden shutters in place that prevented sight into the room beyond, and a small door in one corner. The mechanical clattering noise was far louder now. It came from the far wall, and from silk lined vents that ran along the top of the chamber. Brother Thompson found the heat and humidity of the room to be oppressive and stifling, and the endless noise pounded at his head. The Abbot gave no sign of discomfort, and simply made his way through the workshop and stood by one of the desks. The mechanical noise seemed almost deafening now to Brother Thompson, and the table and chairs seemed to vibrate in time with the thumping metal din. The Abbot shouted over the noise, “Please be seated. Brother James will... ah here he is now!” A clean shaven monk, dressed in a pristine white robe was making his way towards them Brother James. His robe was hooded with the front closed by a drawstring, so only the man’s face could be seen. The Abbot motioned to the newcomer. “Brother Thompson, this is Brother James. He is the Master of Engine Analytics at this monastery. Brother James, I present to you Brother Thompson. Please pay no heed to his stutter.” Brother James extended his hand, and shook it with younger monk. “Salvation be with ye, Brother Thompson! Welcome to the catacombs” said the Master, in thick, Scottish accent. The three men sat down at the desk, Brother Thompson adjusting his belt slightly. The abbot was the first to speak. “Brother James is associated with the Forgemaster Guild. Brother James, perhaps you would care to explain your duties to Brother Thompson here.” The engineer removed his hood, and Brother Thompson could see that his head was entirely shaven, and polished to a bright sheen. There was also something else about James’s appearance that Thompson couldn’t quite place. “My duties here are to oversee the operation of our Analytical Engines, and work with the Inquisition when it comes to collating and organising our data sources. Naturally I spend most of my time maintaining ’PAUL’, the Babbage engine here” he shouted above the noise, motioning to the shuttered windows. “The engine here is one of the largest in the entire Order, and communicates with other ones around the world via ambiaric cables. Perhaps ye have questions?” Brother Thompson glanced briefly at the Abbot, who motioned for him to continue. “H-h-h-how many Engines are t-t-t-t-there?” The engineer replied “If ye mean here, we have four. One large one, and four smaller models, used mainly for diagnostic purposes, and for smaller jobs. If ye mean globally, there are thirty seven other operational engines of the same class as ‘PAUL’ here. A further four are down for maintenance reasons.” James grimaced at this thought. That ‘maintenance’ period had lasted over six years, and showed no signs of ending. There was even talk of closing down a one or two more engines recently. Times had not been kind to the Talon of late. James could only hope that his faith in God, and the order would come through soon enough. He continued, “There are six more engines in the orient that we haven’t heard from since the end of the civil war. I believe there was going to be an expedition to find out what happened to them.” “I h-h-h-had no idea that the op-op-op-operations were so extensive!” exclaimed Thompson. “How many gear yards do you spin here?” “Gear yards?” Brother James chuckled, and reached behind him, taking a hold of the shutter drawstring. He pulled, and the shutters opened, allowing the other monks to get their first look into the Engine hall. “Here, we spin gear miles,” The Engine hall was massive, thrice as wide as the workshop, twice as high, and ten times its length. Gas mantles hung from the ceiling, and disappeared off into the distance. A large number of spinning drive-shafts were suspended from the ceiling as well, with many endless belts running down from them to the machinery below. The engine itself took up most of the floor-space in the Hall, a vast metallic framework arranged into linked towers that reached up towards the ceiling. Each tower contained hundreds and thousands of twisting, turning gears, clattering and clamouring with the endless mechanical din of stressed brass and steel. Brother Thompson’s jaw dropped as he tried to take in the mechanical vastness of the hall. Motion would start in one of the towers, as gears would spin, halt, and shift up and down in an endless mathematical dance. The motion would spread to nearby towers, as they took up the load. Occasionally, Thompson could make out more white robed monks, as they walked on gantries above the machinery, or fed a large hopper with instruction card-sets. The entire right-hand wall of the cavern was filled with rack upon rack of small wooden trays, mostly filled with stacks of punch cards. Every so often, gear linkages would clank, and a series of leavers and pivots would tip card boxes into an array of chutes that lead into the machine. Just as often, cards would slither out of the Engine down wooden chutes, and tidily end up in one of the boxes. “That is our archival storage”, bawled James, catching what Thompson was looking at. “We keep instruction-programs and data-sets on those when they aren’t being actively run by the Engine. PAUL is a wee bit temperamental, so we need to fight a constant struggle to make sure that no dirt or dust follows the cards into the Engine. A speck of sand in the wrong place, and the whole thing grinds to the standstill! Hair too,” James motioned to his bald head. Thompson realised what aspect of James’s appears seemed wrong. “Your Ey-ey-eyebrows too?” “Aye lad. Eyebrows too. But we cannae let the Engines fail. The damn things are necessary for making the Order run smoothly. Look over there!” James pointed to the left hand side of the Engine Hall. The left hand wall had a dozen blackboards mounted on it, filled with neat chalked text, diagrams and maps. Horizontal and vertical arms whizzed over the surface, weaving intricate patterns as they wrote out data with chalk, and erased older information with cloth pads. There were also a large number of tape printers, spitting out ream after ream of densely worded print-outs. Scores of red robed Inquisitorial staff were examining the information and communicating instructions to the Engine workers, as they helped coordinate the Order’s movements. “Y-y-your work is as-as-as-astonishing! I h-h-h-had no idea that the O-o-o-order was so advanced.” “Indeed lad. We dinnae have any choice. The Cult must be routed, and we have to do our part!” James said, the conviction clear in his voice. “Listen to the master my son,” spoke up The Abbot. “We can accept no slackness when dealing with The Cult. It is better to let ten innocent men hang, then a single cult member live!” That loathing in The Abbot’s normally calm and measured voice was un-mistakable. A lifetime of serving the Order would allow for nothing less. “But come my son. There is more to show you. Follow, “said The Abbot, his voice softening. The man rose, along with Brother James, and they began to walk towards one of the doorways in the room. Brother Thompson lingered a moment at in the workshop, gazing on the mighty Engine. As The Abbot and The Forgemaster left the room, Brother Thompson clasped his hands behind his back, and checked his belt once more. The cheap, Japanese Dictaphone was still secured in the small of his back, its tape still recording. The monk thought of the trouble he had gone to in order to replace the original Brother Thompson, and infiltrate The Order. His confessor at The Cult temple would surely reward him greatly for his service to the cause of The Black Hand. The man known as Brother Thompson smiled smugly at the Babbage Engine, then followed The Abbot and Brother James out of the room. Category:FanFiction